Row Your Boat Gently

The afternoon winds prevented any further progress on the lake. I rowed into the shelter of a tiny inlet, went for a hike, returned to fix dinner and then hit the sack. Shortly after midnight the crash of a thunderbolt jarred me out of my sleep. But I was already snug in my tube tent when the drops began to fall. It was not long before the storm was at full throttle. Rain and the roar of churning lake waters filled the canyon. For 15 minutes the violence continued. But, when it finally began letting up, I became aware of another kind of roar, not from the lake but from the gully in which I lay. With a lump in my throat I grabbed my flashlight, switched ends inside the tent, and peered out into the night. A mad torrent of foaming red water was racing through the draw. I froze. In a few very long seconds, during which I had already seen myself carried away with the flood, the roaring waters stopped... only a few inches from the foot of my tent. When my heart started up again, I gave the weather god his due credit for a near miss. It all started innocently enough, I merely wanted to see Lake Powell. But Lake Powell is no ordinary lake. With a shape like a disfigured boojum tree, it penetrates 186 miles into a landscape resembling melting strawberry ice cream. With local weather that is unpredictable, sometimes violent and often spectacular, it has the spooky look of a place not meant for men. Any visit is bound to be interesting.

I would have preferred to float Glen Canyon on a wild Colorado River, but Glen Canyon Dam got there first and ended that possibility. But still, I chose to use my river dory, the Tatahotso, named for an unused damsite in Grand Canyon. She had carried me down nearly 500 miles of the Colorado and its tributaries; it was only right that she be given a shot at the Glen. Of course, I realized I would have to row the 140 miles from Hite Marina to the dam, but I enjoy rowing and the lifestyle that emerges from an oarpowered trip. So with that behind me, all I had left to decide was whether to seek company or go it alone. For a number of reasons which didn't include how lonely it could get on the lake - I decided to go it alone. I was to decry that decision at least once in the days ahead. My initial intent was to explore every side canyon that time would allow. Although that plan never changed, after a few revealing days on the lake, the terminology did: it became a drive to reach the dam, against two opponents adverse weather and the wakes from powerboats. Their goal was to stop me. The weather tipped its hand first. Still within sight of my starting point a brief but convincing rain squall blew me into a rocky shore. That night, with my shoulder hurting from rowing an out-of-balance boat and a bad case of lonesomeness, which I hadn't anticipated, I had more than a few doubts about the chances for success.

even the lonesomeness soon faded. The weather, however, continued to be a problem. Two days later the wind kept me bottled up in a cove for almost eight hours, and I soon learned I could expect a minimum of five hours of up-lake winds every afternoon. It was not until the fourth day that I realized how devastating my other nemesis could be. I had returned to the main channel after an early morning visit to Defiance House in Forgotten Canyon. Stopping to rest, I looked at the map and took a long drink of lemonade to keep my engine from overheating. When at last I picked up the oars I met what would become my archenemy. The boat wake. Several powerboats had passed by, darting like mechanized mice out of one side canyon only to scamper into another. The result was a lake full of waves, "V"-ing up and down the channel and ricocheting off the walls. It was like a washing machine, with me floundering in the midst of it. A stiff headwind suddenly seemed innocent compared to the insidious boat wake. After this first of many encounters I came to regard powerboats as despicable, just as I feel automobiles are obnoxious when I am on a bike and bicycles loathsome when I am in a car. Still later, across the lake in a side canyon called Lost Eden, my negative feelings about speedboats were redoubled. I found a passage so narrow that the Tatahotso could not enter. So, putting on a life preserver, I jumped overboard and sidestroked into the

crack. This method had taken me into some neat places before, but this slot proved to be far from neat. It was nauseating! The water surface was covered with an oily scum and there was a foul odor about. I retreated.

The following day I battled the wind for half an hour in an attempt to enter Lake Canyon. The blast yielded 100 yards before it rallied to disgorge me back into the main channel. But I had better luck in Iceberg Canyon, where it took less than an hour and a half to reach my night's camp at the far end. When the heat of the day began to ebb I followed a little stream up into the canyon. A mile from the lake the defile abruptly ended in a winding corridor with walls and floor merging in a continuous curve. Plates of rock resembling roof shingles clung to the facades and scarlet monkey-flowers issued from the seams. Vertical and beyond vertical cliffs guarded this inner sanctum from the plateau above. There was no way in and no way out.

Yon, each species interbreeding until perhaps a deviant strain emerged. Deviant enough to attack a man in a sleeping bag? How long 'til sunrise?

In the morning, on my way back to the big water, I came upon two houseboats anchored gunwale to gunwale. (Houseboats are the dinosaurs of the lake.) For a group that had spent most of the night filling the canyon with music and bottle rockets, there was a surprising amount of activity on board. Some of the crew filed out onto the porch to watch me pass. One fellow, standing behind a clothes line and holding a pot in his hand, invited me to come aboard. As I approached he pulled a hot dog out of the pot and offered it to me, explaining there had been a mistake in their food order, instead of 24 wieners they had gotten 24 packages.

But it sounded like an old sea story to me. I thanked him but declined. Yes, there were indeed deviant strains evolving in Iceberg Canyon.

Rowing conditions this day were perfect. I maintained a pace of 22 strokes per minute with an advance of 10 feet per stroke, or 13,200 feet per hour, exactly two and a half miles per hour cruising speed. I had wanted to reach the mouth of the Escalante, halfway to the dam in my trip, before dark. But unfortunately a one-two punch was on the way.

In the space of 65 minutes 19 boats buzzed by. When the siege ended I had progressed little more than a mile, enough delay for the afternoon winds to catch me rowing in open water. With sheer walls all around there was nothing to do then but tough it out. It was real honest-to-goodness, backbreaking, gutbusting hard labor before I finally landed on the beach at the entrance to the Escalante arm. While exploring this section of Lake Powell another source of rowing surface disturbance came to light. A couple of hundred feet from where I was rowing a slab of rock fell from the roof of a shallow alcove directly into the lake. I did not see the actual strike, but the boom and its echo made me look up in time to see a fountain of water collapse at the point of impact. Wind, wakes and now pieces of falling sky. The opposition wasn't missing a trick.

The Escalante tributary of Davis Gulch was a delight. Davis Creek sometimes swept along the foundations of undulating rock faces, other times cascaded in small waterfalls. Floods had kept the streambed uncluttered and walking was easy. Only occasionally did I have to duck under a low level limb or wade through a beaver pond. About two miles from the lake, near Bement Arch, I found two of the deepest alcoves imaginable. Little Davis Creek, during its more violent moods, had profoundly undercut the walls. I stood beneath the lip of one of the alcoves and paced off the distance to the nearest wall 80 paces, about 200 feet. I shook my head and walked on.

On the morning of the nineteenth day I rounded a shoulder of rock and skidded to a halt. There stood Glen Canyon Dam. End of the line.

The day ended as they often did, in a race with darkness to reach camp. "Last one back has to stay up all night." (I always won because I determined the definition of darkness.) This evening's contest was a special pleasure. Squishing along in soggy tennis shoes, hurdling fallen pieces of timber, swinging my arms freely until my fingers throbbed with the centrifugal excess of blood. I was content. And beat the purple twilight by at least a length.

A series of wonderful canyons Cottonwood, Reflection, Hidden Passage, Music Temple and Mystery-consumed the next four days. I was blown ashore near Secret Canyon, and the wakes did a number on me at the mouth of Mystery, but it was all standard fare. Then Forbidding Canyon drew me into its passages to look upon Rainbow Bridge. Somehow three and a half hours slipped away while I wandered around the ancient work. Although no more amazing than the generally incredible landscape that surrounds Rainbow Bridge, its simple form is easy to grasp and grow attached to.

On the morning of day 16, with less than 50 miles left to go to reach the dam, I realized I was being followed. A sleek, black, late model raven was on my tail, both of us heading downlake, I at the bottom of a cliff, he at the top. For every stroke I put in, he did nothing. And yet he was gaining. Then, with wings trimmed for a head wind and eyes full of glee, he passed me. "Big deal," I bellowed up, "why don't you try that on a powerboat?" Did I really say that? Perhaps my imagination had gone too far. Perhaps it was time I left the lake.

The next two days I rowed like a madman to within five miles of the dam. On the last evening of the voyage I sat in the stern of the Tatahotso wrapped up in a tarpaulin and listened to the sizzle of a gentle rain falling on the lake.

It was a scene of quiet beauty: the canyon, the clouds and the fragrance of wet desert were without match. All good things come from the earth and men work to apply and enhance these simple but priceless gifts. That is as it should be up to a point. The danger lies in fussing with the bounty until the original qualities are lost and forgotten.

My struggle with the powerboats was largely imaginary (more than once I was offered a cold beer or a tow to the nearest marina). But the contest between modesty and overindulgence is real. What could substitute for the glow of sunrise, the feel of sandstone or the magic of a wild river?

On the morning of the nineteenth day I rounded a shoulder of rock and skidded to a halt. There stood Glen Canyon Dam. End of the line.

With only a mile to go and the closing ceremonies at hand, I got out the sponge and swabbed the decks, transferring about a bailer full of mud from the boat to the lake. With a growing feeling of pride, then, I extended the oars and set a course for the concrete plug, the Tatahotso responding beautifully.

In those final moments I tried to look my best, taking long, strong strokes, blades submerging and emerging with a minimum of splash, leaving a trail of bubbles straight from blot to blob, with the right oarlock groaning gently at every power stroke. The whisper of plopping waterdrops accompanied every return stroke as I approached the back side of the dam and followed its convex surface to the west. In moments I eased the bow into touching the monolith. Contact occurred at 9:40 Mountain Standard Time.

I breathed a sigh of relief, sat quietly for a few moments, tasting the sweetness of victory, and then slowly backed off. In no time at all the dam was far behind me, as I headed for Wahweap Marina, an hour and a half away.

Bookshelf

Inquiries about any of these titles should be directed to the book publisher, not ARIZONA HIGHWAYS.

Grand Canyon Treks. By Harvey Butchart. La Siesta Press, Box 406, Glen-dale, California 91209, 1976. 72 pp. $2.50.

Grand Canyon Treks II. By Harvey Butchart. La Siesta Press, 1975. 48 pp. $1.50.

50 Hikes in Arizona. By Richard C. and Sharon Nelson. Tecolote Press, Box 217, Glenwood, New Mexico 88039, 1976. unpaged. $2.95.

A trio for hikers.

Probably no one has explored the Grand Canyon on foot as thoroughly as Harvey Butchart, who is a professor of mathematics at Northern Arizona University when he is not traveling the canyon trails. The first of these books is a guide to the inner canyon routes, the second a guide to trails from Lees Ferry to the junction of the Little Colorado, west of Cameron.

These are succinct guidebooks, practical pocket companions for the hiker, spare in style but interlaced with bits of history and lore of the region. A paragraph may describe a trek of two or three days. They should be used in conjunction with the excellent U. S. Geological Survey maps and full canteens of water.

The third little book describes with generalized maps 50 possible trips over the state, from the southern border to the Kaibab Plateau on the north, and ranging in duration from a couple of hours, which it takes for the trail to Palm Canyon northeast of Yuma, to several days. Distance, time estimated for an average hiker, elevation and season preface the description of each trail. The authors have hiked each route in 1972-73 and rehiked some in 1976. The light book fits handily into a pack.

Ten Thousand Goddam Cattle: A History of the American Cowboy in Song and Verse. By Katie Lee. Northland Press, Flagstaff, Arizona, 1976. 254 pp. $12.50.

This is a joyous book about cowboy songs and their singers.

Arizona's Katie Lee has been criss-crossing the country for years collecting and singing folk songs and especially cowboy songs. Many of these, oftenthought to be old and traditional, are comparatively recent and were written by a single person within living memory.

Take Gail Gardner of Prescott, Arizona, for instance. There's that song about the Sierry Petes that begins: Away up high in the Sierry Petes, Where the yeller pines grows tall, Ole Sandy Bob an' Buster Jig, Had a rodeer camp last fall.

It has been attributed to a half dozen writers, including Anonymous. Well, Gail Gardner wrote it "with no assistance whatever from anybody but the Muse" in the year 1917. Gail Gardner is a close friend of Katie's and he still lives in Prescott.

Thus Katie Lee sets the record straight. Many of the classic cowboy songs, she writes, were not the product of the open range. They were written and sung after barbed wire ended the trail herding and when the bunkhouse replaced the trail camp and such items as a fiddle, a Jews harp or a guitar could be found.

Throughout the book runs the theme of her seven year search for the town of Dolores celebrated in one of her favorite songs The Town of Old Dolores. Along the way she introduces us to many of her sprightly and salty friends who aided and abetted her search.

Find it she did, not only the town or the bit of it that remains in the Ortiz Mountains of New Mexico - but its author, James Grafton Rogers who wrote it in 1912.

Ten Thousand Goddam Cattle, the title of one of the songs she sings, is written in a breezy, conversational style with a refreshingly unlaundered vocabulary. The text is liberally sprinkled with verses of the songs and there is a separate compendium of songs giving melody and discography and other pertinent information about each. Alas, there is no index!

Faces of the Borderlands. Twenty-One Drawings by José Cisneros with Text by the Artist. Texas Western Press, University of Texas at El Paso, 1977. unpaged. $3.00.

Cisneros is one of the Southwest's finest illustrators. His carefully researched drawings and maps have appeared in more than 60 books. Border horsemen have been his most common subjects and the drawings are notable for their beautiful clarity and their authenticity of detail.

In Faces Cisneros has turned out 20 portraits of men and women of the borderlands, as he conceives them, beginning with a Spanish conqueror and ending with a Mexican revolutionist. For each he has included a paragraph of explanatory text. The drawings are presently touring Texas museums as part of an exhibition of his recent work. As an added attraction for this publication he has included a 21st drawing of an eighteenth cuera dragoon which has been reproduced in color as a center fold.

This is number 52 in the University of Texas at El Paso's Southwestern Studies series. The format is pleasing as usual, and at $3 it's a decided bargain.

ARIZONA HIGHWAYS 1976 INDEX NOW AVAILABLE

The index for all 1976 issues of ARIZONA HIGHWAYS is now available for purchase; the prices listed include postage. Please do not send orders to ARIZONA HIGHWAYS.

Please make checks payable to ARIZONA STATE LIBRARY ASSOCIATION and mail your order to Department of Library, Archives and Public Records, Third Floor, State Capitol, Phoenix AZ 85007.

Editor: The beauty of your magazine has given us many hours of pleasure each month when we receive our issue of ARIZONA HIGHWAYS.

In your most recent issue, March 1977, we were stunned and horrified to see a swastika facing us from a canyon wall photograph on page 36. The caption reads of symbols both realistic and abstract in describing the symbols and figures painted on the canyon.

It is most doubtful that Indians of the past used a swastika as a work of art, or a display of their history and people.

Most disturbing is that a magazine of your quality and beauty could bring us face to face with the ugliness and the social implications of a swastika. We would appreciate your comments.

Mr. and Mrs. L. Marbach, family & friends New York, NY The origin and meaning of the swastika symbol should not be confused with its use by Hitler and his heinous Third Reich. Actually, he utilized the swastika because of its universality to all mankind through all ages. He had illusions of being recognized as the universal leader.

But there's more to this story than meets the eye. Associate editor Wes Holden did some extensive research on the subject. He says: The swastika painted on the wall of Canyon de Chelly, I can doubly reassure you, was placed there a thousand years before Hitler was born. Certainly it is not 20th century graffiti.

Thinking back to the text in that March, 1977, issue, you may recall that the Anasazi who lived in the canyon were the ancestors of today's Hopi Indians. The book by Frank Waters and White Bear Fredrics, intitled Book of the Hopi, may give you some insight into the depth of meaning and importance this symbol has had to mankind since his earliest arrival in the American Southwest.

(Chapter 4) Upon their arrival in the Fourth World, the Third World having been destroyed by water, "... The people began to move slowly off the shore and into the land... the people divided into groups and clans to begin their migrations . . ."

(Chapter 13) "We can see now that the complete pattern formed by the migrations was a great cross whose center, Túwanasavi [Center of the Universe], lay in what is now the Hopi country, in the southwestern part of the United States, and whose arms extended to the four directional pásos.

"Túwanasavi was not the geographic center of North America, but the magnetic or spiritual center . . . .

"Three pásos (migration directions) for most of the clans were the same.

"Upon arriving at each páso all the leading clans turned right before retracing their routes . . . . This transformed the cross into a great swastika rotating counter-clockwise to indicate the earth. These leading clans, beginning with the Black Bear Clan, were the first to begin the migrations and possessed high knowledge, and in turning right they were claiming the land for their people in accordance with the Creator's plan . . .

"The rest turned left . . . .

"These minor clans did not have complete ceremonies . . . in turning left they formed a swastika rotating clockwise with the sun, whose course they were following, symbolizing their faithfulness to the Creator, their Sun Father . . . .

"Thus the pattern and the meaning of the migrations were essentially religious, and they are so regarded today . . .From these few paragraphs one can glimpse only a small part of the traditional and spiritual significance the swastika has to the Indian. You will find it not only painted on the walls of Canyon de Chelly, but worked into the design elements of pottery, baskets, rugs, and jewelry since the time of the ancient Hohokam of southern Arizona, in the year 1.

The swastika also is a form of the cross, as is St. Andrew's cross, the Celtic cross, Greek cross, Egyptian cross, Latin cross, Maltese cross, or 375 or 380 other basic "varieties."

An example of other origins, forms and meanings of the swastika might include this: it has been spoken of as, ". . . a third sign of the footprint of Buddha . . . the meaning being the circle of fortune, which is the swastika enclosed within a square of avenues radiating from the corners."

In 1896 (30 years before Hitler) the Smithsonian Institution did a 250-page book entitled: The Swastika, the Earliest known Symbol, and its Migrations: with Observations on the Migration of Certain Industries in Prehistoric Times, by Thomas Wilson, Curator, Department of Prehistoric Anthropology, United States National Museum. It will furnish you with more examples than you could ever dream possible - The Editor Inside back cover) Water cascading from high sandstone cliffs produce a soul-stirring sight at Lake Powell's Clear Creek Canyon. The result of rapidly melting snow or runoff from periodic thundershowers, hundreds of such falls can be seen in this spectacular country.

(Back cover) Massive Rainbow Bridge - named for its shape rather than its glowing red sandstone composition is one of the most popular attractions for visitors to Lake Powell.

35mm COLOR SLIDES

This issue: 35mm slides in 2" mounts, 1 to 15 slides, 40 each, 16 to 49 slides, 35 each; 50 or more, 3 for $1.00. Allow three weeks for delivery. Address: Slide Department, Arizona Highways, 2039 West Lewis Avenue, Phoenix, Arizona 85009.